


Silence

by yukitan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark John, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, F/M, Implied Torture, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Roommates, Sexual Violence, dubious everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukitan/pseuds/yukitan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty got to him first. Twisted and broke him and remade him to create the perfectly loyal friend and slave. He was a man, and man made in the image of perfection to a god. After all, what is Moriarty without a Moran?</p><p>Then a man with eyes of brilliant blue comes along.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"What happened next?"</i><br/>"I went home for my gun."<br/>"And then?" </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been abandoned because I lost too much interest with BBC Sherlock to continue. Thank you to everyone who read and waited earlier.

Night comes with bullets and shrapnel, with frantic hands and deafening bangs.

 His palms are coated with a cold layer of sweat and he wakes up choking and grabs blindly at his sheets and chest to remember that his body is still intact. To feel dampness on his hands and face that doesn't drive his vision red and hands dripping wet with crimson warmth.

John Watson lies in the empty brown flat, with its blank cream walls and worn oak floor, hoping for a peace he knew would never come amidst sweat and salty tears.

 ~

He'd had his eye on the stout blonde soldier, even before he had been shot and tossed through hospitals accompanied by an apologetic letter sending him back into the civilian masses.

A contradiction. An army doctor indeed, with blood, both literal and figurative, on his hands, tormented like Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth to claw viciously at red stains that would never fade.

_"Captain." he would pause, as though weighing the title in his head for authenticity and reassurance, amost as if he himself couldn't believe it, before giving his name. "John Watson."_

 He had never actually heard him say that, but that was how Jim Moriarty had imagined John Watson to introduce himself.

He never really did give him a chance though, come think of it. He'd read his file though. Read the blind praise for the man's admirable skill in both the operation of a scalpel and the aiming of a gun, and traced a finger down the lines across his brow and crinkled on the edge of his eyes.

"Mine."

 ~

He found the camera in his apartment the day after. Noticed the round lens staring down at him from the corner of the window grille.

He'd shrugged it off, assuming that it was just a security measure that the owner of the building had placed, that he hadn't noticed before.

Though frankly speaking, there wasn't much for any burglar to take. The hand gun in the top compartment of the plain work desk, maybe, but it was hardly valuable, not worth more than a few hundred pounds, the only real value in it was perhaps the rarity of which he had managed to obtain it legally. He kept his meagre army pension in the bank and he always kept his phone with him.

John removed the device, uncomfortable with the surveillance, and put it away into the drawer.

He would tell the landlord when he came around for the rent.

~

It would be an underestimation of enormous proportions to say Jim was more than a little upset when he realized his mark had discovered the spying.

He flicked through the 34 hours of footage he'd managed to procure, breathe quickening at the close up of the good doctor's face as he inspected the camera, hands tensing when he saw how quickly the footage ended.

Still, it was useful to have an alert, observant man.

 A clever one. His friend had to be clever, but too clever. This was fine.

 Jim watched, trembling in excitement as the good doctor twist and writhe in the rickety metal bed.

Oh, what he _wouldn't_ do to get the man into his.

~ 

"Hello!" he bounced on the ball of his foot as John opened the door to the building.

"Uhm, hello." John pressed his weight on his good leg as the man in front of him blocked the doorway.

"Excuse me-"

"Don't worry, Johnny, you won't be going anywhere." the man smiled, his straight, neat teeth lining his lips.

"Sorry?" John looked up in curiosity, pink tongue licking his chapped lips. He had an appointment with his therapist, Ellen, in seven hours, and he'd decided to get a good breath of fresh air before that, maybe go around the the museum or something. Occupy himself, and hopefully the cafe had a good soup of the day, then call up Harry and check to make sure she hadn't died of alchohol poisoning yet.

The man was right, actually. He didn't have anywhere to go.

"I'm Jim. You can call me Jim. Everyone calls me Jim, thought not everyone, actually, you'll be the first. Ho hum, I suppose that makes you everyone. Yes. Good. Hi! John! Can I call you Johnny? But you can't call me Jimmy. That's just silly. Johnny John John!"

"Ah, Jim, look, do I know you?" John raked his memory trying to remember someone by the name of Jim. He knew a Jim Balkan, but he was dark skinned and had been deployed to Iraq, as far as he remembered.

"Nope!" the man who called himself Jim smiled brightly, "But you _will_."

John stared, until a shocking pain shot through his side and sent him reeling to the floor, the shark like grin and lightless brown eyes the last thing seared into his mind as darkness enveloped his world.

~ 

 

 

_There are bright lights and soft hands but he doesn't remember anything more than "I'm Jim Moriarty and I know everything about you."_

_Bright lights and a finger in a trigger_

_"Come on then."_

_Shaking of heads and a maze of brighter lights and unfriendly hands_

_Needle_

_"Shush shush."_

~

When he wakes up again, he is in a cab on his way to Ellen's.

"Sorry, how did I get here?"

"You came in from the British Museum, mate. Fell asleep. Sorry about the traffic." The taxi driver shrugs and waves a hand at the windshield, his arm on the ledge of the open window.

He remembered leaving his house and stepping out of his front door and two words.

Jim Moriarty 

~

Ellen tells him that he should make friends.

He tells her he doesn't have any, to which she replies that he does.

 

There's still Jim Moriarty.

 

~

His flat remains the same, but now the camera is back up. He pulls it back down.

The landlord must've came around when he was out. He'll have to tell him about it.

He plucks at his skin in the shower and tries to remember where the better part of his day had gone.

He scratches at the red spot on his shoulder, and a small white stitch by its side.

~

It continues for days. For weeks. Even months, or were they years?

He lost track, and started relying on the calendar on his desk to keep track of time. He crosses out the days when he remembers to. Sometimes he comes home from another blank day to find a chain of 'x's on the white squares, other times he wakes up to find that it hasn't changed at all.

He tells his therapist. He doesn't actually have much of an impression of what her name, or her face was supposed to look like.

She writes them off as stress, and prescribes him pills this time. He watches her face, and sees her eyes shift uncomfortably and her eyebrows knit together in what looked like guilt for a split second.

He takes the pills home.

And leaves them on his desk, the seal unbroken.

He doesn't need the reminder.

~

Jim comes around for visits often, and he offers John a space at his mansion.

John declines gratefully.

"Thanks, Jim, but no thanks. Things as they are..."

~

The days continue.

He gets closer to Jim, and starts telling him about the blank spells.

One day, John wakes up on Jim's sofa with no memory of how he got there.

He thinks it's a hangover.

"What's the date is it again, Jim?"

~

"I don't really want this to be awkward... it's just..."

"We're just friends, friends with benefits, and what wrong can there be in that?"

Nights are spent in a whirlwind of passion and rough sex, the duo laying in exhausion and sharp, short breathes as they fall asleep in an entanglement of slicken limbs and damp sheets.

~

 

This visit is different.

The curtains are closed tight and the therapist locks the door behind her when he enters the room.

"Listen, John," she whispers in a hurry. "I am so, so sorry, but please, you have to believe me. I've been lying to you. Jim Moriarty is _not_ your friend. He's been manipulating you. Stalking you."

"No. You're kidding."

"Your blank days, John!"

He frowned, he hadn't told her about that. Has he?

"Look, that man is going to kill me, kill you, even. He specialises in murder-when he finds out, no- you have to get out of here, please!"

John is unreadable as he watches her ramble about his best friend. "Don't be ridiculous."

"That man, he kidnaps you every time, then he makes me tell you that it's ok. I don't know why he does, but try to remember, John! What does he DO to you? Please listen to me, you have to _run_!"

John stared down at her in shock.

His leg doesn't tremble, even as his cane falls to the floor

 

Suddenly.

 

_Taser_

_shock_

_hurt by Jim's hand_

_black dark cold car movement reels warehouse flat_

_Pain_

_Water_

_Bright lights and_

_Jim_

"I am Jim Moriarty and I know everything about you."

_Needles blood man blind_

"Now all I need you to do, Johnny, is show me your aiming skills."

 _Please please_ don't _make me do this._

_Needles._

_Knives water water drown air coughing drowning alive_

"Come on, Johnny. Let's try this another day."

_Pain more pain please stop no more_

Relief

 

_Again_

"Don't try to run, Johnny boy."

_Screaming tearing throat cut scalpel knife steady_

"Hold STILL!"

_Blood slick slippery fingers cut_

_yelling_

"You'll have to stitch that up yourself. Don't think you can get away from me every again. I'm watching you, always."

_Pain fingers needle hands crying tears salt blind silence crush screaming sea peace white hot burn heat quiet again again_

Pain

_More_

_Less_

_Again_

_More_

_More_

Pain

_Again_

 

_Pleasure_

_Again_

_Trigger_

_Bullet_

"Let's be friends, John. Friends with benefits."

_Finger_

_Blood_

 

_Pleasure_

_Again_

_Again_

_Please_

 

John is breathing hard as he stares down the woman on the floor.

Her blood is soaking into the carpet and her neck is twisted at an unnatural angle.

He remembers everything.

Days are filled out in the mental calendar in his mind.

Exactly 174 days ago, he had met Jim Moriarty on his doorstep. Of the 174, 1992 hours strapped to a chair, a rack, a bed, a wall, and cut open, stitched back, then torn open again under Jim Moriarty's hand.

Jim Moriarty, James Moriarty.

Lover, god, master, deity, king, everything, and nothing.

" _Brilliant_ job, love."

Jim presses a hand on his shoulder.

"Jim- I remember what happened."

"Do you now?"

Jim tensed up a little inside.

He was almost complete.

Almost.

 

He didn't really want to start all over again.

Just one more push and-

"Jim?"

"Yea, pet?"

"It's ok." John's eyes searched for Jim's brown, deer like ones, looking for forgiveness and retribution. "Sorry- I did it without permission-but-please, Jim."

"Do you know," he tangled his hand in soldier's short brown hair, fingers pulling at the knots and curls. "Gods demand sacrifices."

"Yes-"

"Then I'll take this one." Jim nipped at his lip, pulling the pink skin with a pair of sharp teeth, until a small burst of iron and salt hit his tongue, the red liquid trickling slowly down their interlocked lips.

 

"You are completely forgiven and absolutely _perfect_ , tiger."


	2. Introductory Statements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less of danger and more of something akin to wit? John finds himself making fast friends with the man called Sherlock Holmes. Jim isn't happy, until he does some research on the elusive consulting detective. What he finds makes him realise that having an eye in 221B Baker Street was going to be a lot more useful- and fun- than expected.
> 
> "What happened next?”
> 
> “I went home for my gun.”
> 
> “And then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I'm so sorry this fic took so long to update. It's just that I started writing then I couldn't seem to stop and on top of that I kept hitting roadblocks in writing and this chapter slowly grew from 10 pages to 22. So I took the liberty of cutting the chapter into two parts, and while that means potentially faster updates for you, the entire fic is going to become longer as a result and consequentially longer to finish. Plus it's a little tiring writing by myself. Q v Q 
> 
> Unbeta-ed, any mistakes are mine, please feel free to correct me.

 "How's the blog going?"

"Good. Very good."

"... You haven't written a word, have you?"

"You just wrote I have trust issues."

"And you just read my writing upside down. See what I mean?"

"..."

"John, you're a soldier. It's hard for you to adjust, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you is seriously going to let your friends understand more and help you."

"Nothing happens to me." John twisted his lips in a mock smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Just Jim."

 

~

 

"You're fucking late. And I warned you. Too bad."

 

~

 

He had just left the therapist's one morning. The new therapist. The one that Jim recommended. John Watson's leg still gave out at the most random of times, but Sebastian Moran's was steady and strong, and was walking aimlessly at the park nearby.

Empty, green, quiet, save the constant, metallic clinking of his cane and body against the cement, sending a shiver of annoyance through his body every time he did.

"John, John Watson?"

He looked behind, seeing a broad, robust man waving enthusiastically at him.

"Stanford, Mike Stamford. You remember me?"

 

~

 

"I don't know; get a flat share or something?"

"Oh come on, who’d want me for a flat mate?"

 

~

 

"Mike, can I borrow your phone, there's no signal on mine."

John turned from his surveillance of the laboratory towards the source of the voice.

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text." the man continued steadily, ignoring John. He is classically attractive, with a sharp, angular face and dark hair resting in dapper curls across his brow. Immaculate, tailored black suit, form fitting white shirt and polished leather loafers.

"Ah." Mike glanced apologetically at John, "Sorry, left it in my coat."

"Ah. Here. Use mine." the blonde man reached into his worn blue jeans.

_Cropped hair. Soldier. Together with Mike? Friend. School friends, probably. Doctor. Soldier plus doctor? Army doctor. Valuable. Traumatic injury. Probably psychotic. Nobody just wants to 'befriend' Sherlock, so, practical purposes. Flat mate talk in the morning._

Sherlock stares at the doctor and the mobile suspended in the space between them for a brief two thirds of a second.

_Oh._

_Nosy, nosy Stamford._

_At least he'd combed his hair beforehand. Good impressions are what they are_ _—_ _good. Good._

"Thank you."

_Interesting._

"Old friend of mine, John Watson."

He plucks the phone from the blonde man-John's free hand. The other is locked on the stiff metal cane, his body rested completely on the aluminium stick.

_Hmm. Limp. Bad leg. Bullet?_

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John glances up in a mix of shock and surprise. Mike gives him that apologetic glance again. "Sorry?"

"I said, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan-sorry, how did you-?"

"Ah. Molly." Sherlock smirks, handing the phone back to John, his analysis complete and messages delivered. "What happened to the lipstick?"

The moment the phone returns to his hand, John feels a defensive reflex flare up, as if every bit of himself had just been observed and catalogued by those cold, icy blue eyes.

"Ahm... Wasn't working for me..."

"Really? Thought it was a big improvement." he sniffed the coffee and gave a little dismissive wave of his hand, sweeping the words away. "Your mouth's... Too small now."

"What do you think of the violin?" The man put the cup down.

"Sorry, what?"

 "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days... on end. Would that bother you?"

 John stepped closer, bewildered.

"Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock smiles. It's an odd smile. An intentional smile, from somebody who has obviously read too many studies and factual texts on body language and smiling sincerely, but had yet to grasp the actual material to formulate the act of smiling itself.

A little like Jim, but perhaps less psychotic and more manipulative.

 "You... You told him about me?"

"Not a word." Mike shook his head and twisted his mouth to make that small, almost embarrassed, smile. "He's always like that."

"Then who said anything about flat mates?" John stared after the man, in his tight buttoned shirts and sharp, fitted suits in a whirlwind of quick words and keen eyes. He reminds him, with a shiver, of Jim. He didn't really need another Jim in his life.

 Or anyone else, for the matter.

"Why, I did." Sherlock pulled his coat on. Ordinary people were tiring to be with. Needed a step by step analysis of everything, if he stayed any longer he might just end up releasing that one sample of a flesh eating bacteria into the ventilation just to see its effect up close.  "Telling Mike here this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. And here he is, with an old friend, freshly dismissed from military service. If it isn't flatmates, what is?"

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” He is sharp, for sure. If they were going to be…flat mates… he would have to be careful. Jim would have to make arrangements.

"Got an eye on a nice place up Central London together, we should be able to afford it. sorry, got to dash… left my riding crop in the pantry…”

He talked like he was losing interest. Sentences start off strong and pointed, only to wander off as he came upon the slow realisation that nobody except himself actually understood what he was saying, eventually ending in soft spoken mumbles and half hearted explanations.

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?"

"We just met. Now we're together looking for a flat"

_I_ _sn't that how all social interactions work?_ "Problem?"

John and Sebastian gave a short laugh. This man was exactly like Jim. Just less murder and more height. They were both equally hopeless at ordinary social interaction, for sure. He glanced at Mike for help, and turned back to Sherlock in all seriousness.

“We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.”

He looked curiously at John, as if he had asked an extremely obvious question, before the soft smile breaks into a carefully detailed hypnosis of John Watson’s family, military background and therapist.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon."

The man with impeccably sharp cheekbones and a mind to match winked knowingly at John, leaving the door to swing shut with a dull, resounding thud.

 

~

 

“How _dare_ you make me look up someone for _you_.” Jim curls his lip as the man below him stares up at him with stormy grey eyes. There is blood on the sheets and he knows that it hasn’t even barely begun yet.

“James- I didn’t ask you, you did it yourself--” He swallows as the tip of a blade glides across his thyroid cartilage and he has to arch his throat back to avoid it, exposing the bare skin fully.

“But I suppose it made for an interesting discovery, wasn’t it?”

 

~

 

"Well this could be very nice. Very nice indeed." John said after a look at the room, with its boxes and nonsense overflowing in their corners and falling off every horizontal surface in the room.

“Yes, I thought so too, so I went ahead and moved in—”

A fully equipped chemistry set ran on the kitchen table. Not that much different from Jim's, actually. "Could use a bit of a clean up."

"Oh, um, sorry. I took the liberty of moving in-" Sherlock picked up a knife lying haphazardly on the sofa and stabbed it onto the mantle. "Of course, I suppose I could straighten things up… a bit?

"Is that a human skull?" John asked, out of curiosity than worriment. Jim had a catacomb full of his skeleton collection somewhere in Camden, he was used to it, heck, he might have been personally responsible for a few.

"Ah, yes, friend of mine."

Mrs Hudson was a tiny, blonde woman with a soft voice and too many motherly instincts. “There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

“Of course we’ll be needing two.”

“Oh don’t worry about it, there’s all sorts around here.” She beamed matter-of-factly, making her way to the kitchen. “Sherlock, the mess you’ve made.”

John patted a dusty cushion with the union jack on it thoughtfully before sitting down on the faded maroon armchair. “Looked you up on the internet last night.”

The black computer lit up with a soft thrill as Sherlock turned to face John, his coat and scarf haphazardly tossed over the cluttered coffee table. “Oh? Found anything interesting?”

“Your website. ‘The Science of Deduction’, was it?”

“What do you think?”

"Oh what do you think of these serial suicides, Sherlock ? Thought those’ll be right up your street. Three exactly the same! " The sweet landlady, Mrs Hudson brushed out the crumpled newspaper.

"Four." Sherlock murmured, his attention at the window. “There’s been a forth.”

John smiles quietly inside as he thinks about Jim's grand new scheme. Not so much of a planned assassination than an elaborate criminal drama. He watches the detective rattle off about notes and victims, ignoring every other presence except for Sherlock Holmes.

“Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

“Anderson won’t work, he hates me.” Sherlock swept the room and settled on John. “I need an assistant.”

“Will you come?”

“When I have the time.”

“Thank you.” The man tipped his head and left the flat.

Sherlock kept the façade up, looking disinterested out of the window as the detective pulled into the police car and left Baker street. The poker face disintegrated into excitement as Sherlock leapt from his position, eyes lighting up as he pulled up his coat.

“Brilliant, yes, finally. Four serial suicides and now a note. Ah this must be Christmas. Mrs Hudson, I’ll be going out, might be late. Might need some food.”

“Not your housekeeper.” She said after Sherlock, who ignored her completely as he wraps his scarf about his neck.

Police- deductions- ‘consulting detective’. He was curious, intrigued, he had to admit.

“ _Damn_ my leg!” Sebastian Moran yelled explosively, followed immediately by John’s softer apology. “Sorry. Just that sometimes this leg, you know, bloody thing. Yes, cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.”

“Just this once dear, not your housekeeper.”

“Couple of biscuits too, please.” He continued, picking up the paper left carelessly on the arm of his chair.

“Not your housekeeper.”

The face of the man who was at the door stared back at John from the front of the newspaper. DI Greg Lestrade, it reads. Detective Inspector.

“You’re a doctor. An army doctor.” Sherlock said nonchalently from the door as he slipped on a pair of woolen gloves.

“Yes.” He stood up, almost forgetting the limp on his leg.

“Any good?”

John was almost insulted. “ _Very_ good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.”

“Mm. Yes.”

“Enough trouble then?” Sherlock stepped closer.

“Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

“Want to see more?”

“Oh god yes.” John felt his Sebastian persona slipping, trooping after Sherlock out of the room, ignoring the psychosomatic limp of his leg.

“The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!”

 

~

 

_Going to solve a mystery with Sherlock -JW_

_first name basis already, eh? –JM_

_He picked apart John Watson under thirty seconds. -SM_

_going to look up this Sherlock Holmes. don't mind me :) -JM_

_Jealous? -JW_

_8pm. late, i'll cut you a new one -JM_

_Found anything interesting? -JM_

_~_

John wanted to roll his eyes at the utterly useless bunch of detectives. Maybe he could persuade Jim to let him bomb the next location for dumping a body. Jim had told him about the cabbie he'd hired to stage the seemingly random serial suicides, in order to lift public and police attention off his blackmailing of one of the MPs (personally, John thought it was more of a flamboyant display of power and pride).

Sherlock seemed to think the same, as he ignored the blue gown the forensics analyst pushed to him, taking the steps two at a time to the top floor of the building.

John pulled on the gown anyway, following after the detective inspector who had showed up at the flat, this one seeming to be at least somewhat bright.

The building might have been nice once, a long time ago, tall and Victorian with gothic influences in the flowery spirals curling around the foot of the banisters and printed, elaborate wallpaper on the walls, though everything was falling apart with decades of disuse and abandonment. A romantic place to die, if any.

The stairs creaked, almost akin to a warning, as he climbed.

Sherlock was already stationed at the front of the body, tapping a foot in impatience. John chuckled inside at the dagger glares everybody else in the room was sending the dark haired man with curly brown hair.

The first thing that hit his eye was the terrifyingly pink woman on the floor. Sebastian was disgusted. Anyone with the indecency to wear so many shades of fuchsia on the same body probably deserved a horrible, graceless death.

“Shut up.” Sherlock said curtly to the DI.

“But I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.”

He looked at crime scene carefully, if she left a note, it better not be one pointing to Jim, or he would find it exceedingly troublesome to murder every soul in the building. Rache. German? Revenge?

When Sherlock looks at crime scenes, he sees a museum. A strange museum, for sure, with invisible placards and descriptions, but a museum nonetheless. Note? Rache. German. Noun. Revenge.

Or it could be Rachel. A name. Possibilities.

He swept a gloved hand across the woman’s coat. Wet, yet her umbrella—he pulls the umbrella under her—dry. Recent. Another sweep under her collar—wet as well. Soaked in the rain, probably. Without time for an umbrella. The ring is jerked out carefully from her finger, his eyes looking at the way the gold catches the light.

“Got anything?”

“Not much.”

“She’s German. Rache. German for revenge, she could be—”

“Yes thank you for your input.” Sherlock slammed the door in the forensics investigator, Anderson’s face. He _hates_ that man. The UK weather forecast. Rain, rain, rain, out of town.

"You're an army doctor, John. Perhaps you can give me a reliable forensic." Sherlock said, more of a command than a request.

Sebastian and John, they were used to being ordered around.

John gave the corpse a once over. "Seizure..." he looks at the dried white foam on the boards next to the woman's head. "The poison-"

"Well of COURSE it's a poison. You read the paper." Sherlock throws his hands up. “Victim’s in her late thirties, caught in the rain, from out of town. Cardiff. Wasn’t planning to stay in town for more than a few days, judging by the size of her suitcase. Unhappily married, about to meet a lover.”

“Suitcase?” The DI rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake, if you’re just making this up—”

"Wedding ring, dull on the outside, polished on the inside- constant removal, she doesn't care much for it- divorced then, or an unhappy marriage. Not divorced, if she was, she'ld remove it. So what does a lonely, young? Lady do? She seeks company. A lover. Either one long-term one or a series of short, brief stints, let's say lovers then. She's in an unhappy marriage, let the attachment go to the birds."

"That’s brilliant.” John and Sebastian find themselves both intrigued, captivated by the oddly sane rant of what would otherwise be known as a lunatic. “Sorry.”

"The note." Lestrade gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall back to his side. It is an empty, unnecessary gesture, in all due honesty. As if the man was trying to convince himself that he was somewhat useful and held some semblance of knowledge.

"Rache. What does she want to tell us? She's desperate, clawing with her nails. That must have hurt. Therefore, it's meant for us. It should lead to the killer, but how?"

“How do you know about the suitcase?”

“It’s obvious. God, how do you people survive in those ordinary minds. Splashes of mud on the back of the foot- walking in mud, probably from out of town, so she needs some basics, especially if she's here in town for another lover. A suitcase then! Not just any suitcase, a pink suitcase!"

"But there's no suitcase."

"It's with the killer!"

"Sherlock, there is no suitcase." Lestrade is exasperated, "we searched the house!"

"But there has to be one, serial killers don't-oh- OH!"

The syllable sent a paralyzing sort of calm through Sherlock's body, as John watched, fascinated. His hands and feet froze as his eyes widened, the brilliant blue eyes a full circle in a ring of white.

Without a word, he raced off down the stairs, his coat whipping behind him.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Find Rachel, check her family, friends, everything!"

"Yes of COURSE, but _what MISTAKE_?”

"PINK!"

He gave a final yell, until the only sounds John can hear of Sherlock is the light click of his heels on the wooden panels and the slamming of a certain weathered, rotting door.

 

~

 

John sighed, making his way painfully down the stairs, wincing at the wound in his leg that isn't actually there. He checked his phone as he did. The one he keeps in the inside flap of his jacket.

There are 3 new texts from Jim.

 

_Because I did xoxo JM_

_Your friend has people in high places -JM_

_Expect to find British government -JM_

Only when he has removed the gown and stepped out onto the rain wet streets that he realises he has no idea where he is, and that the sun is already fading away into the black, cold London evening.

"Excuse me, where am I?" he asked the police woman closest to the yellow police tape.

"You don't know where you are? Main street up that way."

He started walking.

"You shouldn't hang out with him."

John turned as she added, almost an afterthought.

"He gets off on it. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

He's seen worse. Done worse. John nodded and continued on his way, hoping for a cab, at least.

 

~

 

_You are John Watson -JM_

_So it's alright -JM_

_Johnny? -JM_

~

 

John declined.

He was watching for one person already. He highly doubted the man with the umbrella and fine suit knew who- or what- he actually was.

He has a fine habit of deleting texts after he receives them.

 

~

 

“James, tell me, where did that man, Mycroft Holmes was it, get those notes?” The blonde man squeezes a sentence in between gasps.

“I let him take it, honey.” Jim breathes steadily into his ear as he thrust into the soldier, “Have to keep up appearances, don’t we?”

“Who- who’s Mycroft Holmes?”

Jim slides his palms over the man’s taunt muscles, slick with a messy combination of blood and sweat. “What kind of person do you think I am to talk about a different man during sex?”

“Jim- James- please, shit, I need to—”

“Shhhh.” He presses his thumb to the side of John’s neck, where his jugular vein throbbed almost painfully against his skin, easing the blonde man's pleads into heavy, helpless breathing. “Keep talking, puppy, we’re going to have a nice, _civil_ , conversation before I’ll let you come _close_ to release. What happened next?”

“I went home for my gun.”

“And then?”

John feels the pressure increase and the thrusting of Jim’s hips becomes almost torturous, wrapped in jealousy and the usual psychotic ecstasy enveloping his companion.

"Down to the last detail."


End file.
